


Tonal Tamias

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Awesome Laura Hale, Depression, Festivals, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovery, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-29 03:15:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19821406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After slacking everything for the past years, Stiles decides to get his life back on track and looks for a summer occupation. Luckily he comes across the website of a local music festival looking for volunteers.It's the perfect opportunity.





	1. Get up

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys ! I'm very excited to start on this new project that will be my first Alternate Universe work ! I'm very motivated to write about it, and I even decided to add little illustrations to it (I need to draw mooore/). Please keep in mind that English isn't my first language and that my texts aren't beta'd !
> 
> It just started with the idea of Stiles and Derek being volunteers in a music festival, but upon starting writing it I just had the need to add a little more depth to it so here it goes. This first chapter is angsty, but the rest of the fic won't be in the same tone, I want it to be something light and easy. Doesn't mean there won't be any angst at all. ;)
> 
> I don't think I've ever written something as personal as what you're about to read, but I hope it is written well enough !
> 
> TW AT THE END

Stiles is jiggling his leg up and down absently, one hand lightly resting on his computer mouse, the other holding up his chin as his gaze is trained on the screen in front of him. He's distantly aware of the darkness that fills his bedroom save from the light coming from his laptop, and he distantly reminds himself that it is already way too late, that he's spent too much time on internet again, that he should sleep. Tomorrow is a school day, now is a great time to turn off his computer and come back to healthier habits. If he's keeping up this counterproductive pattern when he starts college, will he be able to keep up ?

Sighing, the teen tells himself that it is for the greater good, and pushes away from his desk, closing the lid of his laptop. A last glance to the small numbers at the bottom of the screen before it fades to black alerts him that if he supposedly manages to fall asleep at the exact moment he gets in bed, he will get a little less than three hours of sleep.

Supposedly.

He stands in his room, now completely plunged in black, barely able to discern the shape of his furniture in the faint moonlight coming from the window. He stares at the clothes that cover the floor, clean and dirty ones entwined together, sprinkled with snacks wrappers, and then lifts his gaze to the silhouette of the dying plant on his dresser that Lydia got him, to purify the air or something abstract like that. He recalls telling her that he would take care of it. Then his eyes fall on his unmade bed with sheets that should have been changed ages ago, and he asks himself how he let himself get to this point again.

He remembers making a list of habits and goals he had to take up on, because his life is a complete mess and how is he supposed to leave for college in four months and become a functioning adult if he can't even manage his regular teenage existence ?

He is itching to get himself together, motivation coursing through his veins, as he always does when this little crisis happens every other week. But it's three in the morning, and he can't clean his room because it will wake his dad, and he can't go for a walk because it's cold and scary, and he can't take a shower because it's too loud, and he can't work out for the same reason, and he can't read because his bedside lamp died and he can't do anything because it's three in the morning and he has school in a few hours and-

And he is so tired.

  
7 a.m. on Wednesday, the alarm on his phone is hauling him out of his rest. It feels like he had just closed his eyes for a second, and he doesn't feel refreshed at all. Giving an hypothetical finger to his 3 a.m self's resolutions, he sets an alarm for thirty minutes later. He'll start his new productive morning routine another day, when it doesn't feel like his bed is a gigantic magnet to his sleep-deprived body.

Half an hour later, he is again woken up by the obnoxious tune of his alarm, and he groans as he reaches out to turn it off. This time he doesn't have the option to catch a few more zzz's. He stumbles out of bed, mentally checking what he has to skip in order to get to his first class in time. Ten minutes to get ready if he doesn't want to break any laws getting to school, he barely has the time to wash up a minimum - a shower will have to wait, brush his teeth, pop a pill of Adderal and find clothes that don't smell or have any stain on them while still managing to look like an acceptable outfit. He runs across his room, trying to stuff his backpack with what he needs for the day, throws socks on after he realizes he's missing something and hurries downstairs with his thick plaid jacket barely hanging from his arms. Cursing his choice of favorite shoes, he scuffles with the laces of his Converses before jumping up like a devil on resorts with the type of energy that comes from nerves only and sprinting to the kitchen to wish his dad a good day, who tells him in his stern father voice to eat something at lunch at least.

Once outside, he grabs his bicycle from where it was resting against the wall, harshly admonishing himself for always being a thoughtless idiot because now he has to reach Beacon Hills High School in record speed on barely three hours of sleep.

He doesn't have a great day.

  
Arriving at his locker sweating and panting, feeling gross and ridiculous is not a great start to his morning, especially not when right next to his locker is Lydia's, who is already there, calm and composed. Looking beautiful as ever, so well put together, she smiles at him like the perfect person she is, and her joyous mood annoys him. Bitter emotions well up under his skin, and he hates that he can't be as good as her. Instead he's just a loser kid, who can't take care of himself, and who gets angry when he realizes how much of a failure he is. He despises himself for being so jealous of Lydia. Why isn't everything so simple for him ?

After putting up a curt small talk with her, he storms off with the excuse that he has to get to class and immediately berates himself for acting like a contemptible friend. As he walks in his first class, he hopes that nobody will talk to him for the rest of day.

When he gets home that evening, he's in a despicable mood. Tears of frustration burn his eyes, the emotions he had been bottling up during school and for the past weeks finally unleash themselves and he barely takes off his shoes before fleeing to his bedroom. He crumbles against the closed door instead of his bed as he originally intended to, because he's just been hit with the stuffy stench of his room and the disgusting state of everything. He throws his backpack on the floor with a breathless shout, wanting it away from him, wanting himself away from everything.  
Hiding his face in his hands, Stiles loathes the dry sobs that shake his body and the flimsy excuses of tears that escape the corner of his eyes. He wants them to be wet and flowing, he wants them to wash away his resentment, he wants them to drown his emotions out of him and leave him empty and pacified. But they're not enough, just like he's not enough.  
An idea crosses his mind, and he can't decide if the heavy weight in his chest would be lessened if he acted up on it or not. One of his hands untangles itself from his hair and hovers above his thigh, hesitating, wavering.

Somewhere in the middle drawer of desk, there is a pencil sharpener that had been dismantled years ago, but he hasn't used it in almost twelve months.

Breathing out slowly, he reminds himself that he had ordered himself that he wouldn't do it anymore, not even once, and maybe he should start respecting his own promises if he wants to live a better life.

  
Releasing his fingers from the messy strands of brown on his head, he joins his two hands on top of his knees, forcing his body to relax and spread out on the floor. He cringes when he feels his foot touch the mess on the ground, redoubling his efforts in breathing deeply to avoid sending his mind into a deeper loop of negative thoughts. He senses the familiar trembling nervous energy fueling his veins and focuses on that instead of his internal voice attacking him.  
After a while, he's still unsettled and agitated, and he knows that if he starts cleaning up his room now he will spiral downwards again. He needs to distract himself, he can't be left alone right now. He need something to put words in his head so he doesn't have to do it himself, he needs something easy.

He boots up his laptop, puts YouTube on, and hates himself when he falls asleep from exhaustion at 7 p.m.

The next days go by with the same pattern : wake up late, neglect self-care, feel irritated and snappy, get home frustrated, cool down with effortless distractions, feel like a failure afterwards. Itch to get the sharpener blade out of the drawer.

He tries to hold like a last resort onto the fact that he hasn't craved yet.

  
When the weekend finally arrives, he points out to his negative state of mind that he has gone through this many times before, and that he can do it again.  
10 a.m. on Saturday, he turns off his phone and puts it with his laptop in the basement, where he wouldn't go back easily, and begins cleaning his room. As he's noticed it every time before, once he starts it's easy and he usually manages to finish his task without stopping. The only obstacle is to find the strength to put himself to work, but he seems to forget that every time it gets bad again and when the smallest task seems like the worst challenge in the world.  
He gets a little discouraged as he contemplates the vast amount of junk food packaging he picked up from various places around his room. He thinks not only about how utterly unhealthy he is eating, but also about the quantity of plastic and single-use wrappings he throws away every month.  
It makes him feel disgusting and worthless, but he tries to push those feelings down until he's finished. He nurses the plant back to life and changes the sheets on his bed, before opening the window to air out while he goes to take a shower, the first one in days.  
When he's fresh and clean, he's already feeling better, and picking out laundry smelling clothes from a spotless room helps him clear his mind and puts a spring in his steps. He even takes the time to chop some vegetables and cook himself a healthy meal that he takes the time to eat serenely like a prince. Now he just has to keep that up.  
To continue on this great path, he goes for a walk in the refreshing spring air and tries not to think too much about anything else than how pretty the trees are.

But, he can't help but let his thoughts wander to his friends, on which he reflected his internal distress by treating them like strangers all week long. Maybe even longer.  
He thinks about Lydia, his princess Lydia, and feels regret rip at his chest as he looks back to the low burning anger and jealousy, how easy it is to despise her for her effortless smiles and harmony, that made him edgy and unsympathetic. He feels silly when he remembers how he wished she would just help him and fix him like she fixed everything else.  
He thinks about his best friend Scott, and their relationship that's growing more distant by each passing day. He doesn't know which of them had started pulling away first, but he has the impression that it was his fault anyway. He still feels that sentiment of failure when he recalls that Scott has been working at the veterinary clinic for years while Stiles was wasting his teenage years and ruining his future by doing nothing. Some people already have their career all planned out, and Stiles doesn't even see the point of going to college if he won't be able to get through life.  
At least he'd already chosen a major and sent application letters to the universities that he was interested in, but he isn't sure he even wants to study more than High School and he doesn't have a goal at the end of his scholarship. Scott wants to become a vet, Lydia wants to work in chemistry, but Stiles, Stiles doesn't know.  
Stiles can't remember ever having a dream job, or any ambitions at all. He'd never dreamed of fame or money, or had any particular wish for his future. It still seems too far away for him. Lydia wants a cat and a penthouse, Scott wants to get married and have children, but those thoughts never crossed Stiles' mind.  
He doesn't have any interests, he realizes. He's just completely blank.

When he gets back home, silence welcomes him as his father is still at work. He grabs numbly a glass from a cupboard, fills it with tap water, drains it in one go and fills it up again. He stares distantly at the tilled wall, standing by the sink, and feels curious about what keeps him alive beside the fact that he doesn't want to hurt the few people who still care about him. Not much, he admits.  
He still has this childish fantasy about finding the one, but he knows love doesn't work like that in real life, and knows that he won't find anyone willing to put up with him before he sorts himself out. His mom used to narrate him fairy tales about true love saving the hero of the story, and he's always wondered if it was the case in his reality. Is love enough to save anyone ? Are his memories enough to make him want to keep on living ?  
But he ponders darkly, that his mom took love with her when she died, because he never tasted it again since.

  
He spends the rest of the day moping on his bed, exhausted without reason like he always is, and just thinks. What is he doing with his life ? Where does he want to go ?

A little after 8 p.m., he retrieves his phone and laptop from the basement and turns on the latter. Directly heading on Google, he types out "summer job 17 yo" because he need to find something to occupy his time and get a sense of purpose, if only just for a week. He clicks on the first link that leads to a listing of adds. He rapidly browses through them, opening the ones that look doable for him and aren't like three hours away. Then, he reviews them with more attention :

_"Famous restaurant (Beacon Hills) is looking for a waiter with two years or more of experience."_

_"The local BH supermarket needs students during summer break / only requirement is to be at least eighteen of age."_

_"Assistant in a car shop with a diploma."_

_"Experience with children."_

_"Basic Prestashop skills required."_

_"Owning a personal vehicul."_

_"Experienced applicants only."_

He tries lowering the bar, expanding the distance, changing websites, but he can't manage to find a single job add that he could apply to. Maybe it's still too early ? He should search again in a month, more notices should pop up by then.  
But he's got the feeling he won't fit any requirement again.  
He closes his laptop, goes to brush his teeth and falls on his fresh smelling mattress.

He wakes up already well into the day, and hears the sound of his dad puttering around downstairs. Drowsily, he pushes himself from his bed and heads to the stairs, having missed his father in the last weeks. The station had been very busy with a new string of difficult cases.  
They spend the day together, watching TV and playing chess, and Stiles cooks them a meal in the evening, which they share on the couch like they have been doing ever since the dinner table became too big for only two people. His dad goes to bed early, Stiles doesn't want a day that has been surprisingly great to end so soon, thus he goes back online and browses through more job offers, but turns off the computer when he doesn't meet more success than the previous day.

  
On Monday both Stilinski men have to go back to work, or school in Stiles' case, and they briefly greet each other in the hallway when they cross paths. The teenager makes sure to wish his dad a great day before getting on his bicycle and pedaling to school, enjoying the warm rays of sun that gently warm up the city.  
He's in a clearly better mood than last week, which Lydia doesn't fail to notice and get enthusiastic about. He doesn't run into Scott, but that's fine, he's probably better off without him. Scott has the potential to be so much more than the simple friend of a spazzy kid, Stiles can't hold it against him if he decides to separate himself from him.  
Doesn't mean it won't hurt him though.

Lydia, however, never seems to mind Stiles' mood swings and overall well-earned unpopularity, and drags him around the school babbling about this or that, obviously relieved to have the normal boy back.  
Which isn't much, he admits himself.

On Wednesday, his room is still ordered, and Stiles is feeling good about it. He doesn't expect the calm to remain forever, but at least he managed to get through a few days without internal turmoil. He feels proud of himself, but then his mood immediately falls back down when he thinks about the fact that managing to spend half a week like a normal human being is such an accomplishment for him.  
He could be doing great things, but instead keeping his bedroom clean, sleeping enough and finding the strength to get in the shower regularly is all he gets up to these days, and it's already weighting a lot on his shoulders.  
He glances at his laptop, and decides to allow himself to regress to his bad habits for one evening. He deserves it, doesn't he ?  
He probably doesn't. He's still not good enough.  
But positive encouragement can't hurt, he tells himself, and puts YouTube on to lose himself in an endless circle of useless and time-wasting videos.

But instead of some "ten hacks on Minecraft" type of content, his recommendations show him the pretty cover of a music album he doesn't know. He clicks on it out of curiosity, and the retro tune sounds happy and enticing to his ears. When the song's finished, he clicks on another video of the same band, and it's a live performance this time. It's been a long time since Stiles went to a concert, and the idea to assist to one crosses his mind as the jumpy melody still plays in his earphones.  
Perhaps he could invite Lydia to one to celebrate the end of high school, and do something nice together before going off to different colleges, as they probably will.  
He opens a new tab and searches for nearby concerts during summer break. Most of the band names he sees do not ring any bells in his mind, since no really famous musicians ever come close to Beacon Hills. Stiles also doesn't have the greatest culture in contemporary music artists. Or in music artists at all, contemporary or not.  
He saves a couple of concert that look like they could appeal to Lydia's refined tastes before he stumbles on an add for a festival right outside of Beacon Hills. He clicks on the link, intrigued.

 **Tonal Tamias**  
_**25.07.19 - 28.07.19**_  
Outdoor music festival in Beacon County  
Folk, blues, and everything that rolls your rock !

Staring incredulously at that peculiar line, the banner behind it looking even worse, he gets the feeling that this is not the kind of mainstream festival that attracts every teenager in a ten miles radius like a glass of coke attracts wasps. The design of the website and logo isn't exactly tasteful, but it has its own kind of amateur charm. A small smile grows on Stiles' face as he looks through the photo gallery of the previous editions, admiring how everything looks homemade and convivial. There are pictures of staff members having fun together while they are working. A particular picture being one of the truck of a pick-up car that had been covered with a tarpaulin and filled with water, in which a few people are sitting with beer bottles in their hands, grinning at the camera. The caption simply says "reward time for our volunteers !". Another photograph shows a staff member absolutely covered in colors as they give a dripping paintbrush to a small kid wrapped in an over-sized blue smock. Stiles' heart grows warm at the sight of those easily happy people, just enjoying and celebrating time together, and he wishes he could have that as well.  
Deciding that he is going to that festival this year, he clicks on the menu to get more information, and his gaze falls on the words "become a volunteer !"

Oh, _oh_.

  
His dad looks proud of him when he shyly asks him to sign a paper attesting that he is giving his authorization for Stiles to volunteer at Tonal Tamias, and a few weeks later he sees blinding tears shining in the sheriff's eyes from where he's standing on the graduation stage with his classmates.


	2. Arriving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets some of the festival crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments on the first chapter ! I hope you'll like the story !

This is a place he hasn't gone to in a long time.  
Tall robust pines surround him from both sides as he leisurely rides his bike on the rough dirt track that runs across the forest. The generous scent of timber and humus drowns his senses with memories of hiking through the woods with his parents to go to the clear blue lake, hidden between thick bushes and firs, where they would spend most of their Sundays during summer. His chest grows tight at the image of his dad playing with him in the water while his mom watched them from a sun-warmed rock, a soft smile and loving eyes on her face, as she tanned under the bright sky.

He swerves to the right to avoid a hole in the middle of the road.

But his mom, with her polish pallor, never managed to get golden glow without burning like a lobster first. His dad, a deputy at the time, used to send Stiles to look for great pebbles to skim, or thin solid sticks to make s'mores over the fire they always lit in the evening right before going home, while he applied sunscreen on Claudia's skin. Stiles smiles as he remembers how much they loved each other, but sadness pinches at his heart nonetheless.  
He did inherit his mother's fragile pale complexion, but as he hasn't left school for other reasons than necessities in the past years, he never put himself at risk. But today he's aware he has to be careful to no get burnt, seeing he's going to work under the heavy Californian sun for the next weeks. He already thoroughly spread lotion on his exposed skin before he left, and keeps the bottle in his backpack.

Sweat drips down his forehead despite the coolness brought by the forest, but he knows he's almost reached the site where the festival will be built. After a little research, he had realized that the address listed on the website lead to a place he'd walked through when he was younger, the last time being with Scott when he was thirteen and wanted to explore the old farm that still stands there after almost ten years of abandonment. There are a crippled barn and an off-center wooden windmill rising from the wild herbs and flowers that cover the dried soil, like memorials of a previous peaceful abundant harmony. Scott and Stiles had been entranced by the strange, bucolic sentiment that floats in the clearing, and could almost still see the horses leisurely graze in the fields, now covered by tall weeds and feeble bushes, could almost still hear the footsteps of children playing around and the groan of wood when the kids hide on the entresol of the barn, could still almost smell the drying hay and breathe the dust in the air.  
Now as Stiles breaches the thick line of trees and rolls into the clearing, that same winsome mood flows around him again, and surrounds him with phantom memories and nostalgia that don't belong to him.

He stops his bike a few feet after the forest's edge and gets down to continue by foot, both of his hands gripping the handlebars as the lightened vehicle jumps on the rocks while he's pushing it. There are no branches to hide the bright sun and heavy, punching heat flows onto his exposed neck and arms, like flies drawn by honey, making him even more grateful for the light breeze that brings air to his lungs. He squints in the stark light, observing the few people milling around. While there are already a couple of large trunk cases resting near the barn with overflowing crates at their side, he guesses most of the material still needs to be brought on the site. He approaches the shed, gravel creaking under his shoes, and lets his bicycle rest against the worn wooden-wall. He can see the inside of the building between the loose planks, but doesn't pay the detail more attention as he hears someone walking towards him. He straightens up, not giving himself a second of thought before he turns around, unwilling to seem like he's already distrait before he even gets to talk to someone. He barely registers the appearance of the woman standing a couple steps away from him, and immediately words stumble out of his mouth. "Hi ! I, uh, I'm supposed to volunteer here, but I don't really know who I should speak to...?"

The woman smiles kindly, the light catching on her lip ring as she stares up at him. "Hi, I suppose you are Stiles ? I'm Laura, we spoke by email. I'm in charge of taking in volunteers and welcoming the artists, but I'll explain better later. Did you find the site easily enough ?"

"Yeah, uh- I knew the place." He scratches awkwardly behind his neck, unsure what to do with his hands now that he's not holding his guidon anymore, and he gets the absurd thought that his arms are too long. Now that it's gotten into his head, he can't stop feeling self-conscious about it.

"Cool, this is our second year being here, and our third edition altogether." Laura starts to walk away, waving him over to follow. "You're coming from the town ? That's quite a stretch to do by bike."

Stiles chuckles stiffly and regrets it immediately. He clears his throat before answering. "Uh yeah. But I'm kinda used to the exercise now."

"Well, we're gonna need that fresh energy !" She indicates with a hand gesture to the two men they had drawn near, who look up at the woman's jaunty voice. "Peter ! Here's our rookie !"

Intimidated by the two newcomers staring at him curiously, he feels his cheeks heat-up at the attention. The two adults were perusing over something on the ground before one of them pushes on his legs and brushes his hand on his jeans as he walks up to Laura and Stiles. He's tall and imposing, broad-shoulders and a wide throat that grows out of a timeworn v-neck shirt. He radiates confidence despite the casual looseness of his movements, the strength of his limbs obvious. After lingering on the man's muscled arms, Stiles's gaze tracks up their line to reach his face, finding an inviting smirk on his lips surrounded by a light scruff covering his sun-beaten skin.

A wide hand expands towards him, and Stiles twitches on surprise, shots out his own arm.

"Peter, nice to meet you."

His voice is warm and welcoming in contrast with the hardened surface of his calloused hand, the grip just on the tight side of firm. The younger man wishes he sounded more assured when he replies. "Stiles, likewise."

With a slight up curl of his lips, Peter lets go of his fingers but makes sure to keep his intense brown eyes on him. The teenager can't help but grow uncomfortable under his gaze, feeling exposed and scrutinized. He isn't used to people looking at him this fiercely. The older man is either oblivious to Stiles' nerves, or is used to people being intimidated by his presence, because he gets across the basic explanation of the festival indifferently, gesturing around him and thankfully letting his gaze wander from Stiles' face at appropriate points.

The seventeen year old will be lying if he claims to have followed the speech entirely, there are too many new faces and visual information surrounding him to not let his attention wander. For a minute, he focuses on Laura's appearance now that she's not addressing him anymore, discussing instead with the other man who still hasn't introduced himself. She looks to be in her middle to late twenties, her skin sun-kissed and smooth, vibrating with health and energy. From where he's standing, Stiles guesses she's about an couple inches shorter than himself. A loose braid rests on her right shoulder, the dark brown hair thick and voluminous, burnished strands frame her face and float lightly in the breeze. Her eyes are bright and careful, pale green makes her neatly trimmed dark eyebrows stand out. She is stunningly captivating, her lips full and her cheekbones round and high, separated by an elegant straight nose.

  
Stiles observes how sharp her jawline is while Peter's words fly over his head. But the sharpness is softened by her loose fitting clothes, and the overall sympathy and warmth of the character. Apricot overall shorts cover sloppily her toned body, the fabric revealing an intricate tattoo on her thigh, while a simple distressed reseda green shirt protects her shoulders from the sun. Her long legs disappear into worn combat boots stained with specks of paint that make stiles feel less ashamed about his own beat-up converses.  
She's beautiful, he thinks, and it looks to effortless for her to appear this relaxed and easy-going, but staying rigorous at the same time.

"And this is Chris Argent, an old buddy of mine. I've told you of his wife and daughter." Peter finishes his tirade, seemingly too enchanted by his own voice to notice that Stiles has only half-listened to him. The other man gives the teenager a brief nod before turning his attention back to whatever the two adults had been inspecting on the ground earlier, his conversation with Laura obviously ended. Striking cold blue eyes, hard face and whitening beard. Serious.

From what he's caught in Peter's explanation, he's Laura's uncle, along with her two other siblings whom Stiles will meet soon. The festival is a family association, of which Peter Hale is the president, and has always been. Most of the volunteers and helpers are close friends or people who joined the adventure through those friends, but, even though it's a small festival they keep on being severely understaffed through the years, thus they decided to recruit more openly. "But you and another girl your age are the only one new this year." he'd said. Laura, as she explained it herself, is the staff and artists manager. She's the one who makes the lineup every year and is generally the people person, as he put it. Stiles can see that.  
He also briefly went over his nephew's and his other niece's roles, mentioning their names as well, but Stiles can't remember the details. The most important thing he got is that for the next week everyone will be helping to amenage the site and make everything ready for the festival days. A team is charged to prepare meals for the staff, and Stiles recalls it consisting of apparently Chris' wife, their daughter Allison and the Hale siblings' cousin, who both are just a few years older than himself.

"Now, you will get to meet everyone at dinner time this evening. We're having every meal together during the construction and dismantling process." Laura takes over from Peter as he goes to help Chris in the grass again. She's leading him away from the entrance of the barn and goes around it. "During the festival itself we take breaks to eat in rotation so there's always someone at each post, but you'll see how it works in due time. Come on, meet my favorite women on earth !"

Turning around the barn's corner, they find themselves behind the building where a strip of gravel stretches out to touch the forest border. This area is already more set up than the rest, into what he guesses is the staff space, with four foldable tables standing under the shade of the trees and benches along their sides. Ashtrays linger on the wooden surfaces, with already half a dozen cigarette butts crumpled in them. Laying on the floor against the barn's wall are unopened parasols, waiting to be installed in the stands resting next to them, proof that the first crew only arrived an hour or so before Stiles did. On the other side of the sunshades are an old gaze stove and an equally vintage washing machine, the plugs and pipes curling on the gravel, placed near the back entrance of the barn, the open door hanging heavily from its hinges. Out of the dark rectangle of shadow appears suddenly a woman, probably draw by the sound of their advancing footsteps on the pebbles, and she smiles tiredly at Laura who greets her with one of her bright smiles and a "This is Stiles, our new little recruit !"

The woman turns her eyes towards him, all welcoming and pleasant, her hands resting on her hips. "How great of you to join us, heaven knows we need some young people around here. Hi, I'm Victoria, but you can call me Vicky."

"She's one of the three lovely people with the responsibility to feed us for the next months." Laura adds, coming to stand beside her and put an arm around her shoulder affectionately, which the older woman accepts with a indulgent glance. "And how great they are at their job ! We wouldn't survive without them, especially without Madame Vicky."

Victoria shoots her an exasperated but fond look, sighing to stop calling her like that, to which Laura whispers to Stiles that Chris's French as if sharing a secret with him. Stiles only observes, bemused, the interaction and feels out of place in the middle of this big close-knitted family. Despite not being related, the Hales he's met go along with the Argents like they've known each other for dozens of years, which they probably do. Laura and her siblings must have grown up with Allison as their chosen-cousin. Stiles and his father don't have anyone like that, deputies at the station don't count like family friends and the McCalls haven't been around long enough to feel like they're more than acquaintances. And now that Scott's moved on from Stiles, well, there isn't much left. Lydia's his only remaining friend, but they haven't seen each other since graduation and he has the feeling that they won't stay in touch for very long in college. They're not stuck together in an enclosing school anymore, and soon she will take advantage of that and her newfound liberty will surely drive her away from Stiles.

Stiles just doesn't feel like he ever fits in anyone's life.

As he gets roped into helping Vicky install their camp kitchen inside the backroom of the barn, encouraged to climb onto a stool to hang lights from a wooden beam, he meets Victoria's daughter, Allison, who's as charming and kind as everyone else. Except maybe Peter about whom Stiles just got an uneasy feeling, partly because his nature is more difficult to discern than with other people and Stiles doesn't like to not know how to feel about someone.  
Allison Argent, he learns as she converses with him while they get the kitchenware from one of the trunk cases he's seen earlier and dispose them on shelves, is twenty years old and on summer break from Stanford University. Her face is as round as her mother's, the cheekbones as prominent, but whereas Vicky's hair is trimmed short and dyed red, her daughter likes to keep her natural curls long and unrestrained. Deep dimples dig into her cheeks when she smiles, which she does a lot, and Stiles wonders why everyone can be so happy and pretty short for him. He tries to keep his jealousy down when he thinks about how she still has both her parents and gets along with them so greatly that they work at the same festival every year. He slams the spoon container down a little bit too hard.

Stiles hasn't seen his father in days. Their schedules just don't match up, but he knows that despite everything, his dad still cares about him.

Unconsciously, he reaches down in his pocket to curl his fingers around the post-it note he found on the fridge this morning.

 _Off to work, call me if anything_  
_Have fun at the festival !_  
_Love you kiddo_

The sheriff had been proud to see the multiple acceptance letters from college that had arrived in the mail, and then even more when his son finally finished High School, maybe as much as he was when his small child skipped a grade in Elementary School despite his not-yet diagnosed ADHD and ended up at the top of his class anyway.  
Stiles is aware that the sheriff still loves him as much, in spite of the mutual absence of the other in their life and the fact that the teenager hasn't achieved anything in life except finishing obligatory school. At least he's got enough love for his son to compensate how much Stiles despises himself.

  
After they retrieve the last kitchenware from the trunk, Victoria invites them on a break, pushing glasses on a table outside above which she had opened a parasol, and fills them with soda freshly out of the cooler. Stiles slumps onto the bench, grateful for the refreshment as the heat and the sun beating down on him when he was walking around the barn with sometimes heavy material in his arms were starting to make his vision go cloudy. Allison sits down next to him, sweat sticking strands of hair on her neck, and she reaches a hand to her glass eagerly. They both gulp down the Cola with thirst, and pant slightly afterwards. The brown haired girl laughs when she sees Stiles head slump down until it rests sideways on the table, his reddened face appreciating the coolness of the shadowed wood.

"Look at us," she scoffs. "Already dying after the first hour. How are we gonna survive the rest of the work ?"

Stiles lets out a groan, scrunching up his face.

After a while, Laura comes back and joins them at the table and pokes at Stiles' head as she sits down across him. "Already giving up ? Kids those days aren't what they used to."

"You can talk." The Argent replies smoothly, a glint in her eye. "I've seen you do nothing except walking around hoping someone would need your assistance. Which nobody does."

"Well there isn't anything I can do for now. Once we bring out more material from the storage, you won't see me resting even one second."

"I bet on that."

Laura lets out a bark of laughter, her mouth opening enough for Stiles to catch the sight of a pearl on her tongue. "Nice try Aly, but I don't play with money."

The two of them keep on conversing randomly, sometimes including a reserved Stiles into their banter, when the sound of tires on the gravel reaches their ears, making him straighten up, alert.

"Ah," Laura notes, beginning to extricate herself from the table. "They're back. Prepare to meet my family, green bean. I hope you're not allergic to dogs."

"Uh, no ?"

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for : depression, self-hate, mentions of past self-harm, self-estime issues, self-neglect
> 
> I hope you guys liked it, please let me know what you thought of this first chapter in the comments ! The festival part will actually begin in the next part, that was just the introduction ;p


End file.
